Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years.
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